


Prayer for the Dying (Rough Draft) (EAD)

by WaterSoter



Series: WaterSoter's 2018 Evil Author Day, [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: 2018 Evil Author Day, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion Of Murder, Disturbing Themes, EAD, Evil Author Day, Gen, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Minor Character Death, Mutilation, No Beta, Past Child Death, Permanent Injury, Rough Draft, WIP, dark themes, discussion of other trigger topics, implied/referenced mutilation, past major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 06:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13698480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterSoter/pseuds/WaterSoter
Summary: Some things can’t be forgotten, only lived with. Scott stayed in prison. This is one possible AU of how that would go. AU to AvX Consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about love; about pain; about betrayal. It’s about forgiveness and learning to move on even when everything in your life feels like a speed bump waiting to trip you up. This story is about death and resurrection and more than that, it’s about one man’s journey out of the abyss and into the light. I hope you guys enjoy. This is not a happy story but maybe in the end, that’s not a bad thing. This story takes place years after AvX Consequences. For those of you that are reading my Down the Valley of Elah, I use the same concept of Scott staying in prison instead of escaping here too but with a very different outcome.

Cover by WaterSoter

*O*O*O*

  
Still.   
  
Quiet.   
  
The sort of peacefulness not found but in the middle of nowhere which was how he liked it. There wasn’t even a breeze to caress the five inches of snow that had blanketed the entire area. Or the pines that had lost the last of their leaves months ago and now were brown skeletons reaching out like bony hands.   
  
Scott struggled with each step. Negotiating his walking cane, the rifle over his left shoulder and the pile of hares that had fallen into his traps. Enough meat for the month, maybe. If he rations. There were fish. The lake a ten minute walk. Frozen thickly but not much of a problem that a chainsaw couldn’t fix.   
  
Lots of canned goods but not much else. Not that it mattered. He had water, he had snow he could melt. Firewood enough to last three winters. And if he needed anything else, well, there was always the town an hour’s drive. If the snow didn’t pile up too badly it was an option. Not much of one. Not when his truck probably wouldn’t make it out of the driveway and his snowmobile was an uncontrollable rhino at the best of times.   
  
A sprinkling started up. Small flakes that seemed inconspicuous until it piled on high and made walking an impossibility. Scott was already increasing his pace. As much as he could, anyway. He was not much of a sprinter these days, but his body still remembered how to _move_. Body memory so ingrained into his bones that he could do it blind, deaf and with broken legs.   
  
He slugged through snow, some already hardening into tightly packed mounts. His pants soaked to the calf, his feet like blocks of ice. He should had worn better boots, at least ones that were waterproof before heading out. His hands at least were warm. About the only part of him that still was.   
  
Moving branches out of the way before they smacked cuts and welts on his face. His tightly wrapped scarf more of a hindrance as his breath spilled out. Big puffs that served as a reminder just how out of shape he was. Even as his lungs burned and the cold seeped right in.   
  
An eternity and he was at the cabin that was more like a mansion. The storm in full swing by the time he made it up the porch. Visibility less than a handspan and Scott nearly laid down right there in front of the door. Body stiff and legs even more so. Like trying to move on stilts.   
  
His hand slip twice over the handle before twisting it open. The door thrown by the force of a gust of wind that sliced right through him like a sharp knife. Scott stumbled inside, slammed the door shut with his own weight and had peeled his stiff jacked off before realizing something was wrong.   
  
The rifle in his hands, fumbled into them if he was being honest, before it was pointed at the person lying on a couch in front of the fireplace. A fireplace that had been cinders now roared merrily with a fire. A couch that hadn’t been there when he left that morning taking up space in his previously bare living room.   
  
Not too long to recognize the long blond hair or the cool, cool look thrown his way. Those blue eyes that were a purple to him, studying him with that quiet intensity that Scott hadn’t felt directed his way in a long time. A little self conscious of the untidy beard he was sporting or the disheveled hair that brushed against his shoulders.   
  
It wasn’t like he tended to entertain guests or that people that did see him cared whether he had shaved in a week or a year. That his hair tended to be a collection of tuffs than the carefully combed to submission. That Scott Summers was long gone and in its place was someone who didn’t much care one way or another.   
  
Still it was hard not to fidget under that gaze. Measuring, assessing. He hated how it made him feel, mostly he hated how it reminded him of everything he had lost. Like a ghost from the past sliding its icy fingers in his gut and squeezing.   
  
He broke eye contact and kept to his routine as though it hadn’t been shattered like sugar glass against a wall. His jacket was nearly frozen. A fine layer of ice on top. He probably should had come in through the back. There was a spacious mud room that kept him from studding mud and dirt all over the thick oak. He’d never used it, but it might had come in handy if he could get over  how closed off it was from the rest of the house.   
  
His pants were just as bad, and with those eyes on him, he chugged them off and shrugged off any discomfort of undressing in front of someone. His long johns at least would help him keep some modesty, though not much since they clung to him from calf to thigh.   
  
Once that was done, he stepped across the room to the cot shoved against the wall. A duffle and a couple of boxes containing all his worldly possessions. Rummaging until he got a pair of jeans that didn’t smell too bad and a ratty sweater.   
  
That particular room was a huge open space, taking up most of the first floor. With the kitchen in tucked into one corner and the fireplace dead center on the opposite wall. There were plenty of large windows chasing away the gloomy atmosphere. A walk in pantry toward the back and two bathrooms that had alternative showers and tubs. There was an outdoor jacuzzi that could be sealed off from the elements with a click of a button and an empty panel on another wall were a flat screen television would had stood. And that was only the first floor.   
  
It wasn’t a place he would had chosen, even if he’d had the option. Something more utilitarian though he appreciated the wide, open rooms. An easy line of sight. Except that couch that stood like a black stain on white satin. He couldn’t quite stop from feeling its presence. Even as he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. It was an itch between his shoulder blades. More than his unexpected visitor.   
  
Once the water boiled and coffee returned warmth to his hands, it was his turn to study his wayward guest. She hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d seen her. Hair just as long, cropped in severe lines. A little older, with lines on her face that seemed out of place, like a cherry red convertible on a Rembrandt. Her choice of clothing, on the other hand, was something else. Black leather boots up to her tights, biker shorts, a blouse that was painted on with her midriff showing, long gloves and some kind of reversed headband that looked more like horns on her head finishing up the look. All she needed was a dog collar and a whip and she’d fit right in in a S &M club.   
  
There was also something about the way she sat there, perfectly posed like she had nowhere better to be that was off. Like looking at an optical illusion, seeing one thing or another and realizing that it was either and neither all at the same time. Head trip, Warren had called it when the professor had first introduced the puzzles to them. With a sour note in his tone as Warren slumped in his chair. Dismissive of anything that was out of his comfort zone. He shook the memory off. It, like so many things from his past, was better left buried and forgotten.   
  
They stayed in silence long enough for him finish his coffee and remember the hares that still needed to be cleaned. Carelessly dropped by the door, forgotten in the face of the unexpected.  
  
He made to grab them but a beep stopped him. He turned toward the couch, a big, imposing thing that was probably feather soft. She was checking the communicator on her wrist with all the indolence of the teenager she should had been. Except for the tightening of lips and the deepening of faint lines, premature, around her eyes and mouth. The dark shadows that crept up in her eyes for a moment and gone.   
  
She looked up at him, an inscrutably look thrown his way before she was gone in a light show of mythological creatures surrounding a portal. So different from the discs of the past.   
  
He stood in the middle of the room. That monstrosity of a couch glowing in the fire’s warm light.  In another lifetime he might had wondered what was wrong and what he could do about it. In another lifetime. Instead he went and grabbed the hares and placed them on the counter to prepare for skinning. There were drops of deep, deep red. Vivid against the pink, white, of their winter coating. Marring that perfect coat. He carefully skinned the hares, his hands turned red with their blood.   
  
Cleaned he packed them to freeze and kept his mind on the storm outside. On the whistling outside as the storm bored down on the area. The branches whisking back and forward like a deranged 1920s detective.   
  
He ate a small dinner. Some beans, fish and something that was pink and chewy. He put some more wood into the dwindling fire and watched it roar back to life. As he laid on his cot, watching the flames danced to a rhythm much their own. He didn’t allow himself to think about Illyana and those premature lines she carried like boulders on her back. He didn’t think and didn’t wonder and he didn’t touch that invader that sat in the middle of what was supposed to be a living room. That night he slept fitfully and sometimes not at all, a typical night for him but he didn’t think about anything or anyone. None of it taking root in his mind like it would had in the past.  


	2. Chapter 2

Cover Art by WaterSoter

*O*O*O*

Lithuania was a small spec of town of about a thousand people. Not a city by any means but rather a small town in a state that was made of primarily of small towns. Most of them in the middle of nowhere and so out of reach that self-sufficiency wasn’t just a survival mechanism but a way of life.   
  
Scott rather liked that there was only one gas station that served as a diner and a grocery store. There were mostly mom and pop shops passed down from one generation to another until it served as a bizarre if accurate genealogical tree. It was a close knit community and Scott often felt like a zoologist watching a herd of animals in their natural habitat. There but always apart.   
  
He drove his truck, an old beat up ford that plowed through snow and ice better than most snowplows. A monster of a machine that could spin on a dime and take about any terrain the forest could thrown at it. Somedays, when walking was a little easier and waking up not some monumental task that made him wonder why he bothered, those days Scott called it Wolverine. Never out loud and never for more than two heartbeats.   
  
Today was one of the better days. As he took the dirt road that led into town, he imagined Wolverine with his claws out and snarling like a rabid animal. Everything and anything getting the hell out of his way because you just didn’t mess with the Wolverine when he was in one of those berserk modes. Unless you were either suicidal or, in Scott’s case, wanting to regain some semblance of control over an uncontrollable situation.   
  
He let the memory fade and focused on the road. It was bumpy and each jerk was like a sharp poker in his leg, shoulders, chest, head. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t hate these trips, especially after a bad storm. The roads were muddy and slippery, the usually packed dirt a series of potholes and juts of rock. Like coming down a mountain side while riding a donkey with a bad limp.   
  
There wasn’t much traffic through the rolling hills that made the 25 mile drive as precarious as roller-coaster without seats or safety harness. Even so Scott had expected some some trucks or even old beat up cars rolling along the curves and twists of the roads. There was a new storm system on the way and the lull in between was the perfect time to stack up on supplies that couldn’t be made, fished, hunted or cut down from the nearest tree.   
  
Scott had a list that had eleven items and he was a single man in a large house. Here families were large and plentiful. With a house having no less than three generations under its roof plus cousins, close friends and anyone who didn’t have anywhere else to go and needed a place to stay.   
  
He took one vicious turn with practice ease before going down into Lithuania. It was cradled between two mountain ranges with the Baltic ocean on the other side. The harbor empty of the usual slew of fishing boats since most of them would had taken advantage of the lull in bad weather to go out.   
  
Scott’d almost offered once or twice to go out. When the brother of the Maggie’s captain had taken a bad spill and broken his leg in two places. When the Agatha’s first mate had come down with pneumonia. The itch to be out there, fighting the wind and ocean and throwing and brining up nets and cages until your bones ached all the way down to the marrow and your hands felt like raw meat. That sense of normality called to him like a siren's song and only the reality slamming into him when he walked and needed a cane for support made him keep those offers behind his teeth.   
  
No doubt most would look at his face, his hands when not covered up by thick gloves and the ever present limp and would come to the right conclusions that he was up to that as much as a baby calf to mountaineering.   
  
He stopped at the other grocery store in town. It was more like a bulk warehouse were toilet paper came in cases of forty and dried noodles in crates of a hundred. He passed an elderly couple that huddled together. A nod and he was inside the warehouse. The cold only slightly more bearable now that he was out of the elements.   
  
The interior was even larger than the warehouse seemed on the outside, with shelves of everything from ibuprofen to boat motors. There were only a few stragglers and again Scott through it odd that it wasn’t packed with every townie and drifter in the area.   
  
Scott had been there enough times that Kerry, a young kid with a freckled face and hair so blond it looked white, took one look at him, snatched his shopping list and disappeared into the isles with a flourish. He sat in a small waiting area by the seven registers, five of which were closed and the two open had clearly bored clerks manning them.   
  
He recognized Maggie, whose husband captained the fishing boat by the same name and was heavily pregnant. She was having animated discussion with her fellow clerk on the best way to deal with a penguin.   
  
Next to him was an elderly couple who were having a whispered argument about, of all things, ice skating. On his other side was Mitchell Myers. Former army ranger, from what he’d been told by everyone and anyone that could get him to stand still long enough. Lost his leg in some op that was so off the books any official paperwork was so redacted that the pages were more black than white.   
  
It was mostly gossip, but Scott only needed to look into his eyes to know the truth of it. Those dark shadows and steel embedded deep in his soul. Scott nodded to him, and Mitchell responded with a sharp, jerk of his chin. Like to like.   
  
He waited for Kerry as another wide-eyed kid came plowing around with Mitchell’s cart. He stood with difficulty while the kid, an old hat at dealing with him since he was smart enough not to offer assistance. He hovered nervously and then gulped as those steely eyes turned his way.   
  
Scott didn’t get to see Mitchell do his military thing as Kerry chose that moment to come barreling over, his cart just as full. Scott spotted a few things that hadn’t been on the list. Sleeping bags, extra blankets and pillows and an extra coat made for arctic winters. There was a several sets of wooly hats, thick leather gloves and fluffy ear mufflers.   
  
He raised his eyebrows at Kerry but he just nodded at the list in his hand. Scott took it from him and his eyebrows nearly climb right off his forehead to camp out at the back of his head. His ten items were there, along with a slew of things he hadn’t asked for but were written in clear, crisp blue pen.   
  
“The rest is going to have to be backordered but it should probably get here with next week’s shipment if I call in the order before noon.” Kerry was vibrating in place, hands firmly on Scott’s overflowing cart. “So you need a hand with that?” Kerry didn’t wait for Scott’s response, already making his way out the door and toward his truck with the cart.   
  
Mitchell gave him a wan smile, amused despite himself. “Worse than a puppy that one.” His own kid was racing Kerry to the main doors and their respective trucks. Mitchell’s looking as worn and well worked as Scott’s did.   
  
Scott wasn’t paying much attention to Mitchell, nor to Kerry piling everything up under the truck’s tarp. He was staring at a spot towards the back of the warehouse, where a wisp of blond hair had been not a second before.   
  
A quick glance around showed nothing out of place. Mitchell already moving to the cash register, with Maggie cheerfully checking him out with an air of positivity that couldn’t be natural for a woman in her condition. Scott decided that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. He moved to the other register where a young girl that couldn’t be older than sixteen dimpled at him. The total given, Scott paid with one of the dozen untraceable credit cards he had.   
  
The accounts were old. Set up with worst case scenarios in mind and hidden through paperwork, and later fake corporations and offshore banks. Money enough for several lifetimes and hundreds of people to live on comfortably much less one. Still he couldn’t help the tensing every time he was forced to use one. Every time the possibility of being traced and being found become reality.  
  
The card went through, receipt in hand, breath still stuck in his throat, he made his way outside. Mitchell was supervising the loading of his truck. Barking out orders in a tone that would have been the envy of any drill sergeant. The kid, to his credit, took it all in stride. Lifted the box of canned good and moved it one way then another until it was exactly the way Mitchell wanted.   
  
Scott gave a nod in passing at the man, getting a a sharp one in turn before Scott went to check his own loading. The truck’s bed was more than big enough for everything. There were a few extra things that Scott hadn’t spotted before. Other than what he shouldn’t but did have on his shopping list. Most telling was the feminine products that Kerry was nonchalantly placing with everything else. He didn’t even glance at him even though Scott could tell he wanted to.   
  
Once he was done, Scott gave him a generous tip and Kerry gave a too bright smile. Sometimes he wondered if everyone in this town was on something. “Thanks Mr. S, see you in a few!” Kerry said as he rushed back inside. Sliding on the ice that had been puddles when he’d arrived. He heard a similar call and saw the kid that had been helping Mitchell, Scott thought his name might be Carl or Lars.   
  
Mitchell just marched onto his truck, got in but said loud enough for half the parking lot to hear, “Damn kids and their weed.”  
  
Scott just shook his head and moved alongside the driver’s seat. Climbing on was always a challenge but a manageable one. He watched as Mitchell tore out of the parking lot, throwing slush all over the place. When he went to turn on the ignition he paused. Sitting casually as though it’ll always been there was a hula girl, or what used to be one before it was decked out with horns, a small handmade sword attacked to its back and black pants instead of the typical hula skirt.   
  
With a sigh, Scott started the truck, reversed it and made his way back to the road. Trying hard to ignore the damn thing that bobbed around like it was mocking him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I have edited. I have one more written that I hope to post soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Cover Art by WaterSoter

*O*O*O*

The whine of another storm blew through the shutters and shook windows and doors. The twak twak twak of it a comfortable rhythm alongside the gentle roar of the fire and shik shik shik of the knife sliding through wood. Like a lullaby long forgotten, familiar in ways a lot of things were familiar and comfortable in Alaska.   
  
Scott sat on his cot, a small piece of balsam poplar wood in his hands. Most of the looming trees in the area were either sitka spruce, ideal for lumber and timber with their tall and straight trunks, or balsam poplar, with their soft wood that was perfect for crates, pulp and construction. So far Scott had found balsam easier to work with. Smoother and less likely to leave splinters all over his hands.   
  
He moved the knife, carefully over each contour. Jagged edges smoothing and sharpening. It wasn’t meant for anything. To _be_ anything. More of a way to keep his hands busy and his mind clear and empty. Help with his hands, to return and keep the dexterity of his fingers. The movement easier now then a year ago. Ignored the sinfully looking couch abandoned in place like the intruder it was. It looked like it was made of clouds and probably melted at the slightest touch.   
  
He would had set it on fire if it didn’t risk the rest of the house. It didn’t have a place in the utilitarian way he kept things. From the plastic and stainless steel utensils and dishes, to the military style cot on one side of the fireplace. Away from the main entrance. Windows. Safe.   
  
Bit down the resentment of having the couch in a place of honor, in front of his fireplace. The very spot where he’d sometimes wrap himself in a blanket. Stare into the tinder and flames that always felt as if they were reaching for him.   
  
At least the extra supplies were easier to deal with. Stored away, out of his way and out of his sight. Except Scott could feel them in his space. An itch beneath his skin, a hitch in his breath and Scott stopped, waited until the room settled, his lungs no longer struggling. Pretended. That they weren’t there. That things were as they should be. If he didn’t to deal with them, he could pretend they didn’t exist. It was easier that way. A lot of things were easier that way now.   
  
He breathed, ran his hands over the wood. Not anything, not yet, but it felt like a lopsided dumbbell. One side bulky and straight edges and the other rounded, almost circular but not quite. If he cut it just right, shaved off a few areas here and there, smoothed certain parts, he could almost imagine the shape it could be.   
  
Closed his eyes as it unwittingly took him back to a mission so long ago. Kitty, so new to a X-Man’s life, still so bright eyed and innocent. Penguins. Her face when she’d seen them and Scott missing Bobby so much it was like a physical ache. Knew that he would had loved to had been there. Would had thrown snow balls and had had a snarling Wolverine trying to skewer him.  
  
Breathed and forced the memory away. He considered doing the same with the wood. Throw it into the fire and watch it burn. Or he could leave it as is. Dump it as the latest failed attempt at something remotely recognizable. Scott glanced at the left of the room, where a narrow shelf ran the entire length. Where each of his pieces, distorted and abnormal as they were, were displayed. There was progress, he knew that. Seeing each piece in their order from first to last.   
  
Whittling.   
  
Not something he would have chosen, not consciously at least, as a hobby. But there was something that pulled at him. Maybe some long forgotten memory, maybe not. There were things in his head, from before, that were now a jumbled mess of fragmented bits and pieces. What had once been precious moments. It could had been something his dad did, before the plan crash. His mom. Someone else. No one else. He’d never know, not now.   
  
Outside the wind slammed hard against the roof. Rattled windows and storm shutters. From where he sat, had the perfect vintage point of the floor to ceiling windows. The glass fogged from the cold but he could still make out the flurries that fell in waves. There was already a thick blanket on the ground. In a couple of hours it would block doors and bury his garage.   
  
Scott eyed the rifles by the door. Resisted the constant urge to bring them closer. By his cot, under his pillow. Within easy reach. Wouldn’t do much good, not if he couldn’t use it without a lot of preparation. Time to brace himself, his arms, his legs. Keep the shot from going wide. The recoil from landing him on his ass.   
  
He moved the knife, carefully. Ignored it as the light faded, the sun slinking behind trees. Pitch black in minutes but for the white of the snow. Came back to himself as the wind stopped howling like some hellhound. Now just a steady, gentle pressure against the cabin, over the roof.   
  
With a sigh, Scott put his latest project away. It no longer looked like a small, lopsided dumbbell.  Not barely much better. Braced himself. Cold and inactivity always made his body lock up. Got up. Bit back a hiss. Knees and leg protesting the whole way. Stretched. Forced muscles to relax even as they shook and jerked.   
  
At the door he considered his options. Two rifles. One with scope, a shotgun and a sawed-off shotgun. Shotguns did a lot of damage. Not much good for precision. He grabbed his rifle, no scope, juggled it, cane, shovel as he bundled up. Opening the door, on the other hand, was hard. As hard as he thought it would be.   
  
Snow piled on high.   
  
Slammed his shoulder to loosening up, pushed until the door got unstuck. Slipped through. The wind ripped through the thick layers as though they were thin veils. The bitter cold bitting right down to the marrow and stiffening muscles that were just beginning to uncoil.   
  
Scott took a moment before plunging into that darkness. The porch lights a muffled ring around the front. There wasn’t as much snow near the door, but by the garage it was piled near half way up. He walked down the stairs, a cautious elbow on the banister before starting on clearing the snow off the porch, what little snow there was there.   
  
It was hard work, when he needed to constantly recenter himself or fall flat on his face. His leg cramped and there was a painful pull at his back. God, he was an old man. Old and worn and felt every one of his twenty eight years as if they were a hundred more on top of that. Leaned against the banister, felt the burn over his shoulders and arms, his calves and back. Let himself rest, just a minute.   
  
And that was when he felt it. It wasn’t anything tangible, nothing Scott could reach out and hold. Just an itch between his shoulder blades. A tingling at the back of his neck. Something that went beyond the logical and crossed the line into something more. Something more basic, primal. Not the first time he’d gotten that feeling. A sense of being watched. The raising of hairs at the back of his neck, his heart pounding in his chest but never catching a hair or hide.   
  
Scott angled himself to get a better view of the woods. It was dark, impossible to see clearly even without his glasses. Not with the light from the porch turning everything beyond an inky black. Even with the brightness of the snow. Just a shade or two lighter. Not enough to get a clear look through the corpse of trees, but Scott didn’t need it. He knew there was something out there.   
  
He didn’t freeze but rather kept shoveling half-heartedly. His rifle sliding gently down his arm. Everything was quiet, still. Even the flurries that fell seemed somehow unnatural, otherworldly. Almost hovering in the air.   
  
There was movement and Scott had the rifle up at the ready even as his footing slipped and stumbled. He managed to stay standing by sheer force of will though his leg was screaming at him and a cold sweat broke out on his back. His hands shook with the effort of holding the rifle up. Not enough strength to keep it steady. Dammit.   
  
There was displacement of snow to the left and he jerked that way. Whatever it was didn’t move. A deeper shade than the forest. Large, large enough to be a kodiak but Scott didn’t think it was a bear. Not with the way it sat on its hinges, more like a dog or a wolf. Paws stretched out in front of it. Ready to pounce at a moments notice.   
  
He kept the rifle cocked through herculean effort. His shirt was already soaked with sweat and beats of it were rolling down his face and into his eyes. He wanted to wipe them off but wouldn’t risk taking his eyes off the whatever-the-hell that was.   
  
Wisps of breath blocking his view. He tried to slow down his breathing, or breathe in smaller puffs of air but his lungs were already burning. So disgustingly out of shape despite months and months of effort.   
  
The creature coked its head at him. Scott got the strange sense that it was observing him as much as Scott was observing it. He really hoped it either attacked or got the hell out of there, and soon, because he didn’t think his arms were going to be able to hold the rifle up much longer. His entirely body was now shaking uncontrollably from the effort. His legs trying to fold in on themselves.   
  
Scott knew if he fired now, he would probably miss and as an added bonus to being an appetizer, land flat on his ass. Might not have a choice, with his hands shaking so badly now. He was seconds away from dropping the riffle and folding over like a deck of cards on the ground. Then the damned thing took one loud whiff, scratched the ground twice and disappeared in a single bound.   
  
Scott needed a moment to close his gaping mouth before his legs gave way. Depositing him in an undignified heap on the snow. He sucked in air, his whole body vibrating with exhaustion. Too overheated to feel the cold.   
  
He closed his eyes for a moment and froze when he heard the crunch of someone walking on snow. He opened his eyes to the sight of a tremendous snout inches from his face. Held perfectly stiff, not so much as twitched towards the rifle not even a foot away.  
  
The snout lowered and Scott waiting for the inevitable. Instead of the tearing and searing pain, there was a wet tongue. It was licking his cheek. Scott blinked, and blinked again as he was lapped up like a cat a bowl a cream. Well, okay then. If it wanted to savor his meal before eating it . . . but instead of a bite it kept on licking him.   
  
Slobber covering his face, dripping into his hair. He was still heaving. Lungs seizing and Scott coughed and chocked. Fought against the black spots dancing in his eyes. The world narrowing down to a pinprick. Inhaling like trying to suck a lemon through a straw. Not enough. Even as he tried to relax, to slow down his breathing, the pounding in his ears. Not enough, not nearly enough.   
  
Black spots in his eyes and Scott knew what came next. Too familiar with that. Outside, in the cold, bad idea. Needed to move. But he couldn’t. His body like lead. And cold, as he started to loose consciousness. Dark and out but before then, before he was completely down, Scott heard the receding flurries of crunch, crunch, crunch leading away from him and deeply into the forest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one more chapter that I need to edit and that's the last one I have written for this story. Please keep in mind that this is a rough draft and when I finally post the edited and betaed version it will be in another post, not this one.


End file.
